I Feel Halved
Maybe more so. I would frequently refer to Susan as my better half, so that suggests I've lost more than that.
It's also my timeline that has been sliced in two. I went for a walk by myself today, and couldn't remember doing that for a while. I realized this is going to color all my experiences from now on -- doing things I've done before, but now I'm doing them as a widower. I had experiences before I met Susan, and some of those were nice, but the best ones happened during my time with her. Now that time is over. I'm 47, so my timeline hasn't been cut exactly in half either. I've most likely got less than half my life ahead of me. Just now, it's hard to imagine it being the better half, but I can hope it'll get better than this.
It's like how 9/11 changed America, dividing everything into what happened before or after. It's different, though, because this event is not shared. As I walked around the neighborhood, I heard people playing music, or laughing. I found it a little annoying, as if it were inappropriate for people to be having fun in a post-Susan America. Of course I know that makes no sense. They didn't know her.
Family understand. They get it. It helps that someone else does.
I'm going about my life as best I can, trying to make good decisions and move ahead, but that's not to say I'm enjoying it. More like I'm faking it until I make it. A bit like Buffy the Vampire Slayer might say: I'm going through the motions. Sleepwalking through my life's endeavor, and hoping I'll eventually wake up. Nothing here is real, nothing here is right.
At the best moments, I feel... OK. So perhaps my emotional range has been cut in half too. Certainly not the better half of the deal.
Occasionally Susan and I would try to discuss what life would be like for me, after she was gone. I said I would probably muddle through. So far that seems accurate. It's scary, trying to navigate the world without her. I depended so greatly on her wisdom and intelligence. That I should be running the show alone? No, nothing here is right.
It's one thing to know and understand, with my rational mind, that she is gone. It's quite another, it turns out, to wrap my head around it, to grok it. This fact doesn't want to fit into my worldview. I keep experiencing these moments of thinking it must be some kind of mistake. Nothing here is real.
I spent some time today looking at pictures taken over the past couple years, our time spent in this house since buying it. I'm reminded again of how much work it took to get here: The house hunting. All the flights back and forth. Shipping both cars. Finding neighbors who could help us. Buying new furniture. Dealing with crises which had to be handled from a distance, because they happened when I wasn't physically here to help. The many doctors' appointments. The forced change in medical insurance. Keeping track of all the medications and refills. Finding foods she could still eat. Merely thinking about it all is exhausting. The required time and effort kept growing until it felt insurmountable, and then suddenly, none of it mattered. Suddenly all those bottles of pills, all that medical equipment, all that knowledge crammed into my brain -- it was all moot. How can that be real, how can it be right?
Through the lens of the bottom-half emotions, there's sadness of course, and a persistent feeling of being old and tired, as if this has aged me. There's also a tinge of guilt and shame. The guilt comes from looking backward and questioning where I went wrong, what I could have done differently that would've given her a longer, healthier life. I recognize this behavior is like smoking: it's fruitless and unhealthy, but hard to quit doing. I've even had some dreams at night during which my brain has decided to torture itself this way. This may help to explain why I'm not getting enough sleep.
The shame comes from telling myself she was the wrong one to go. Faced with the Grim Reaper, I would've offered to trade 20 years of my life to extend hers. If he hadn't taken that deal, I might have offered to simply take her place. As it turned out, I was never consulted.
Anger still seems to come through clearly. It's almost comforting, in an odd way, to read about the crap the so-called President is trying to pull, and feel infuriated by that, the same way I always have.
I try to stay busy. I don't have to call the pharmacy any more, but I can call the bank. It no longer makes sense to tweak this house to be easier for Susan to navigate it. Now it needs to be fixed and polished up so we can rent it out. It's good to have things to do. It allows time to pass. Family helped me through this period, and I need to keep it together so I can help them too.
I'll keep on keeping busy until it gets late, then try to get another half a night's sleep.
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